Fate Spares Him For Some Other End
by Adalanta
Summary: Caught alone in the wilderness, the sons of Denethor are suddenly attacked by a band of orcs, leaving one brother gravely wounded and the other to ensure his survival. But can he find the strength to do what must be done to save his brother's life?
1. The Sacrifice of a Brother

Title: Fate Spares Him For Some Other End

Author: Adalanta

Email: adalanta14@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13 for a few gruesome images.

Characters: Boromir, Faramir 

Categories: Angst, Drama

Summary: Caught alone in the wilderness, the sons of Denethor are suddenly attacked by a band of orcs, leaving one brother gravely wounded and the other to ensure his survival. Disclaimer: Boromir and Faramir are Tolkien's. The situation is mine.

Note: I was rereading The Two Towers the other day and was inspired by a single line – that which I've used for my title – and also by the preview of the Extended Edition DVD due out in November, which showed the bond between the two brothers. Feedback is craved for and greatly appreciated! Please, let me know what you think! 

Fate Spares Him For Some Other End 

Chapter One – The Sacrifice of a Brother

"Faramir? Faramir, you must stay awake. Just a little further, and then we can stop. It should be safe then."

The only answer the worried voice received was that of a painful moan. Boromir, son of Denethor, tightened his grip around his younger brother's slumped body, careful to avoid the arrowhead that protruded out of the back of his shoulder, and urged his horse on.

The attack had taken the brothers by surprise. One moment, they had been riding at the foot of the mountains, relishing their freedom from the White City's confining stone walls and enjoying each other's company, and the next…It had been as if the very rocks of the mountain had spat forth the Orcs. The foul creatures had surrounded them in but a few short seconds, snarling and hissing at them in their hideous tongue, bristling with spears, knives, swords, and crossbows. The battle had been fierce – two against twenty at least, possibly more. Even now, a few hours later, Boromir could not begin to comprehend all that had taken place. His memory of the battle was shrouded, cloaked, as if a thick, gray fog had settled there to hide his memory of the ordeal.

But not all of it.

No, one moment of the battle stood out in his mind, stark and clear amongst the dense clouds.

The moment his brother had shouted his name loudly and maneuvered his horse in front of his own.

The moment the arrow had pierced Faramir's shoulder…an arrow that had been aimed and meant for him, the elder of the two.

_How could you do such a thing? _Boromir silently questioned the figure before him. _Why did you do this? You had no right to jeopardize yourself for me. If such a deed were to be done, it should have been I who had done it, not you! _

A slight movement in his arms brought Boromir out of his reverie. He emerged only just in time, for Faramir had gone completely limp and begun to slide sideways in the saddle, Boromir's strong arms catching him only moments before he tumbled to the hard, unforgiving ground.

"Faramir," he spoke firmly, though with a tinge of panic. "Faramir, do you hear me?"

There was no answer, not even a moan or the tiniest hint of moment.

Fearful now, he gave the younger man a hard shake, hoping to provoke some small response. Instead, the wounded man's head lolled back limply to rest on Boromir's right shoulder, the pale face only partially visible beneath the strands of shoulder-length dark hair. Quickly, he raised his right hand to brush back the hair and was shaken when the hand touched skin that was cold and clammy, devoid of both blood and warmth.

"Faramir!" he cried out, swinging his legs over the horse's side and slipping to the ground, cradling his brother to his chest as best he could while still mindful of the arrow. Carefully, gently, he laid him upon the ground on his side, awkwardly holding him there with one hand, while tapping his cheek with the other, all the while calling his name to rouse him. 

Fear filled his heart as a memory rose unbidden in his mind, remembering another whose body had grown cold and still and silent, the long, dark, silky hair splayed out upon an elegant pillow, the beautiful sea-gray eyes closed forever.

_No!_ he thought, pushing the memory violently aside with a franticness borne of desperation. _He is not dead! See, his chest still rises! And indeed, it was true. His brother still breathed, though it was shallow and unsteady._

At long last, he felt the body under his hands shift slightly. Faramir's eyelids fluttered open and two glassy, pain-filled eyes stared up at him blankly. It took a few moments for the gaze to focus and recognition to dawn. "Boromir?" he mumbled weakly.

"Yes, Faramir, I am here. No," he ordered as the younger man moved and cried out in pain. "Do not move. Be still, brother."

"It hurts," came the breathless reply. "I…the pain…never felt this…way before."

"I know," the older man soothed. "And it gladdens me that you have not, otherwise this would have happened before, and I would not like that." 

A faint smile curled about the wounded man's lips. "I am…glad about that…as well." He stiffened as a wave of pain appeared to flow through his body, forcing him to clench his teeth to hold back a cry. Boromir automatically clasped his brother's hand in his own, a grip that the young man returned tightly. Finally, the pain seemed to subside. Faramir's body relaxed a bit, the tense muscles loosening, allowing his weary body to sink farther down onto the ground. "Boromir?" 

"Yes?"

Faramir swallowed. "Are you wounded?"

The older man glanced down briefly, seeing the numerous cuts and bruises that covered his arms and legs, and then shifted his gaze over to his brother, seeing the exact same cuts and bruises on his body as well. To some unused to combat or a soldier's life, the wounds would have been cause for alarm, but Boromir was all too familiar with such things. Although only age twenty-two, he had been fighting for nearly seven years, the last two of those having served with the rangers of Ithilien, a dangerous assignment given only to the most stealthful and skilled warriors. As a child of Gondor – even though the son of the Steward and Steward's heir – he had learned at an early age that fighting was constant and unrelenting. Rarely would a soldier emerge from battle unscathed…it was a fact of life. There was no need to mention his minor wounds because, in truth, they did not matter.

"No, I am unharmed," he answered, squeezing the cold hand that he still held in his grasp. "Do not fear for me."

"Good. I thought…I had feared – "

"It is all right, Faramir. Do not trouble yourself on my account," he said in a reassuring tone. "Now, be quiet and rest for a bit. We are safe here." With a sigh, Faramir nodded and followed his advice.

Kneeling at his brother's side, staring into the white, bloodless face, Boromir warred within himself about what to do and how to treat Faramir's wound. One thing was certain…the arrow had to be removed. Every second that the shaft remained inside increased the chance of fever and infection. He knew from bitter experience how deadly the pair could be. Knife and sword wounds were dangerous, but the steel that caused them seemed to be…cleaner, somehow. Soldiers with arrow wounds were immediately at a disadvantage because the wood of which the arrows were made seemed to breed infection. He had seen it before – two men wounded in the same place at the same time, one with the sword, one with an arrow – but only the one pierced by the arrow had succumbed to death. Indeed, for that reason alone, the arrow must be removed. And then there was the fact that Faramir was unable to even lay flat until the wretched weapon was withdrawn.

But could his brother endure the agonizing process of the arrow's removal as weak as he was already?

_He has to, _he decided grimly. _There is no other choice in the matter._

"Faramir, I need to retrieve our supplies from our mount. I will be back presently," he added hastily when the gray eyes opened to meet his own, filled with uncertainty. "Stay still. Can you remain this way on your own or should I search for a few rocks to help hold you?"  
  


"N-no," Faramir stammered, looking vaguely appalled by the suggestion. "Go. I will be fine."

Boromir hesitated until he felt the limp body strengthen slightly beneath his hands, and then nodded in agreement before moving off.

TBC…


	2. Necessary Illusions

Title: Fate Spares Him For Some Other End

Author: Adalanta

Email: adalanta14@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13 for a few gruesome images (especially in this chapter)

Characters: Boromir, Faramir

Categories: Angst, Drama

Summary: Caught alone in the wilderness, the sons of Denethor are suddenly attacked by a band of orcs, leaving one brother gravely wounded and the other to ensure his survival.

Disclaimer: Boromir and Faramir are Tolkien's. The situation is mine.

Note: Thank you all very much for your reviews! Each and every one is appreciated and cherished (and given a little dance of joy). Please, please, keep reviewing! Oh, yes, before I forget. Daughter of Olorin – I couldn't agree with you more about the Extended Edition DVD. All Hail Boromir! He may be dead, but he isn't gone (especially in our hearts). 

**Fate Spares Him For Some Other End**

Chapter Two – Necessary Illusions

The supplies were placed strategically around him: hunting knife unsheathed by his right hand on the short, coarse grass, several bandages made from his torn undershirt to the right of the knife, and a rough brown blanket by his left hand, ready to cover his brother once the procedure was over. His thick, dark-blue cloak lay bunched up under Faramir's right cheek, a makeshift pillow that appeared to be the only source of comfort he could provide in the wild. And finally, two large stones about three hands high and wide rested one behind the wounded man's back and one before his stomach, intended to prop him up, and thereby freeing both of his hands for the horrible task ahead. 

Preparations now complete, he spoke in a low voice by Faramir's head, explaining what he was about to do, hoping the young man would understand his words through the lethargy that had taken over in the last few minutes. "Faramir…brother, the arrow must be removed for it is unsafe for it to remain inside any longer." He paused and was surprised to receive a weak nod in acknowledgement. "But it is in too deep…I cannot just pull it out."

Faramir moaned faintly and struggled to open his eyes, a battle that was hard fought but ultimately won. He stared straight up at him and seemed to peer into his very soul. Understanding mixed with pain and nervousness in those gray depths, but fear was nowhere to be found in them. 

Boromir felt a bolt of pride flash through him at his little brother's bravery, a feeling that slightly eased his dread at the upcoming ordeal and the terrible, agonizing pain he was about to inflict upon his own flesh and blood. "You understand what I must do, do you not?" he continued softly, slightly unnerved by the steady gaze, wanting – needing – his brother to understand exactly what was about to happen. "I will have to snap off the back and push it through, Faramir. There is no other way in which to remove it. And it must come out."

"I…understand," Faramir answered in a weak but clear voice. "Do it."

Overcome by emotion, he nodded wordlessly and took up his position, kneeling in front of the younger man's shoulder near the back of the arrow. He took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath to steady himself, trying to control the churning in his stomach and the slight trembling in his hands. _It must be done, it must be done, it must be done, _he repeated over and over, a mantra intended to convince his heart of the truth that his mind already knew. Then, he opened his eyes, took another deep breath, and began his task.

Grasping his knife firmly, he used the sharp blade to cut through Faramir's heavy, green tunic and his white, blood-splattered undershirt. Though the cloth ripped relatively easily for the most part, exposing the thick, wooden shaft beneath, he was forced to pull at the small piece that stuck to the base of the wound to slip his knife under it and slice it off. He gritted his teeth as Faramir stiffened and moaned as the shaft was touched, though he did not jerk away. 

Once the stubborn piece was removed, he could, for the first time, see the entrance point clearly and the black wood that protruded gruesomely out of his brother's white skin, a sight so revolting that he nearly turned away. He had witnessed such a thing before, had indeed seen this same operation performed…but never on someone so dear to him as his own brother. Uncertainty filled him, causing him to pause in his ministrations, and consider all that lay before him. 

It was then that he realized the truth of the matter.

He could not bring himself to harm his little brother – could not cause him more pain even if it was to save his life. 

And yet he had to. He could not just sit idly by and watch him die. 

There was only one way he could perform the operation. He had to pretend – no, convince himself – that the body on which he worked was not his brother, but some soldier that remained on the field of battle after the attack had ended, someone he had only just met that required his aid. 

_This is not Faramir, _he told himself firmly. _It is just a man, a soldier…_

Only then could he continue on, looking only at the arrow and the wound…and never at the anguished face that rested upon his cloak.

Steeling himself for the inevitable reaction, he grasped the arrow with both hands, one near the skin and the other a few inches up the shaft, and exerted pressure on the top half. The last eight inches of the arrow snapped off with a loud **_CRACK_**, accompanied by an agonized, gut-wrenching cry from the body before him. Boromir dropped the splintered piece and grabbed hold of the injured man, trying to keep the writhing body still, all the while hearing his gulping, wheezing breaths and mindless moans. 

_Finish it! Finish it now! _His mind shouted the order to his shaking hands, and he complied only a moment later, gripping the remains of the protruding shaft tightly in his right hand and shoving it further into the shoulder. His left hand was braced behind the shoulder, pushing the man onto the arrow at the same time, creating an immense pressure from both ends in an attempt to finish the procedure as rapidly as possible.

For Boromir, the next few minutes took on a nightmarish quality, filled with ghastly images and sickening sounds that he knew would haunt him forever in a small, hellish corner of his mind.

The warm blood that flowed over his hands, welling up from wounds both in front and behind.

The raw, tortured screams torn from the young man's throat, filling the air with the sounds of utter torment.

The body bucking beneath his restraining hands, the muscles wound so tightly that they seemed ready to snap at any moment.

The bloody arrow shaft that was so slick that his hands slipped and slid off it, forcing him to wipe the crimson liquid off on his own tunic before grasping hold of it once again from behind.

The wet, sucking sound of the arrow as the last of the shaft popped out of the pale, blood-covered body. 

And the last agonized, tormented scream as the man arched his back against the excruciating pain, and then went completely and utterly still. 

Without thinking of or even considering the abrupt stillness, Boromir seized the thick bandages he had laid nearby and held them over the bloody entrance and exit wounds, pressing hard to stop the bleeding…or at least slow it. Only when the bandages were in place did he glance down at the chest below him to check if the man was still breathing. 

He was.

Barely.

He finished securing the wounds as quickly as possible, wrapping several strips of cloth around his chest and shoulder to keep the thick bandages in place, and then shoved away the rocks propping him up, lowering him carefully to the ground where he could rest flat on his back. Grabbing the brown blanket off to his left, he covered the prone body, pulling the dark cloth all the way up to his chin…where he saw the deathly pale face…of Faramir.

The illusion that he had woven about himself to insolate his mind from the truth was instantly shredded. He could no longer pretend that what he had just done had been to a stranger…but had instead been done to his own kin.

He nearly broke then. 

The guilt and fear that had remained dormant – bottled up inside – was instantly released. Looking down at his hands, he saw reddish-brown stains of his brother's blood and smelled the sick, coppery scent that filled the air. He felt as if he were blindly teetering on the edge of a great precipice, wobbling, unsure of which way to move for safety…for sanity…for life.

_You cannot fall apart now_, a voice inside his mind spoke calmly._ Faramir needs you – now more than ever. Stay strong. Do not give in to despair. _

He allowed his eyes to close, clinging to the calm, reassuring voice – a voice that seemed oddly familiar. He knew that voice, remembered hearing it years before when he had been but a child, comforting young Faramir during a vicious storm that had besieged the White City. Faramir had been so young, only six years old, the memory of his mother's death still a raw wound upon his soul, even though nearly a year had passed. His little brother had sobbed for hours…from the frightening storm, from the agonizing pain of loss, and from the harshness of  life. Boromir had nearly given in to despair, then, so distressed over his brother's pain that tears had stung his eyes. He had cradled Faramir in his arms and leaned over him, the tears slipping down his cheeks, feeling his heart grow cold and hard and heavy within his chest. A part of him had been slipping away, disappearing into the rainy, wind-blown night to be dashed to pieces…and lost forever. 

He had made no attempt to stop its flight.

Then the voice had called his name and told him not to be afraid, that he was needed and loved – most of all by his brother – but by others as well, that he could not give in to despair. The voice had filled him with quiet strength and had seen him through that harrowing night and into a new, glorious dawn that was so filled with hope that it seemed as if the sun had risen just for him.

And now, some twelve years later, the voice had returned to do the same thing. It chased away the despair and filled his exhausted, drained body with hope and strength, allowing him to continue on, even after he had all but given up. 

Slowly opening his eyes, he stared down at the silent body of his brother, studying his pale face, and reached out to brush the sweat-dampened hair off of his forehead, frowning at the cool, damp feel of his skin. Faramir was far from well, and he had the sinking feeling that the situation would become worse before it grew better. But at least now he had the strength to face what was yet to come.

TBC…


	3. Thoughts in the Darkness

Title: Fate Spares Him For Some Other End

Author: Adalanta

Email: adalanta14@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13 for a few gruesome images.

Characters: Boromir, Faramir

Categories: Angst, Drama

Summary: Caught alone in the wilderness, the sons of Denethor are suddenly attacked by a band of orcs, leaving one brother gravely wounded and the other to ensure his survival.

Disclaimer: Boromir and Faramir are Tolkien's. The situation is mine.

Author's Note: Thank you, O Blessed Reviewers! (_humbly bows to computer screen) _Your words of encouragement have brightened my days and filled my heart with the desire to write more! Please, please, keep it up! 

****

Fate Spares Him For Some Other End

Chapter Three – Thoughts in the Darkness

Daylight had long since passed, followed closely by twilight, and then it completely disappeared as a heavy darkness took hold of the land. The blackness was broken only by a single fire, a dim glow from far off, shielded from unfriendly eyes by a ring of stones that surrounded the small blaze. And by the fire, a man sat quietly, staring, mesmerized by the dancing yellow, red, and orange flames that flickered erratically, the light illuminating a solemn face and a pair of sightless eyes.

__

He should have woken by now, his mind muttered uneasily. _It has been hours since the arrow was removed, and he has yet to stir and show signs of life._

No. That is not true, he countered, angry with himself for even considering the possibility. He reached over to touch the right hand of his brother, who lay quietly beside him. _See how his skin is warm to the touch. The clamminess is gone, as is the coldness that had afflicted him. And his face has more color than it did only a couple of hours ago. He is growing stronger, I am sure of it._ With that, he firmly closed the door on that worrisome, traitorous part of his mind.

But no matter how much he justified his slumber, he still wished that Faramir would wake up…just to be certain.

Looking into that pale face, he was shocked to discover how much his little brother had grown and changed over the past few years. Most of Boromir's time lately had been spent far away from Minas Tirith, away from his father and brother and the confines of the Stewardship. His father had granted him this time to sharpen his fighting skills and, most importantly in Denethor's eyes, to gain the trust of the men with whom he served. In truth, Boromir gave little thought to his father's reasons, preferring instead to concentrate on more important matters…such as learning – and staying alive.

For Boromir, the only time that he felt completely whole and satisfied with his life was when he was out in the field with his men, tracking down Southron spies and battling orcs. He felt…alive, then, with blood pumping furiously through his veins and his sword flashing, slashing this way and that, knowing that each enemy he killed would mean one less threat to Gondor and her people. He knew beyond any shadow of doubt that his future lay outside the City's walls. But how could that be when he was destined to be the next Steward? Lately, that question had been more often on his mind than not, and he had yet to find an acceptable solution to the problem. 

But there was one other matter that darkened his perfect life as a soldier…Faramir.

He and Faramir had always been close, more so after his mother's death, perhaps, but that was only natural. With Denethor's harsh attitude present and their mother's warm, caring nature gone forever, Boromir had stepped in and taken a more active role in his little brother's life. The bond between the two brothers was as strong as the best steel, tempered and weathered by life's battles, but emerging as a sword fit for a King. And though they both were vastly different, Boromir involved in warfare and Faramir more interested in scholarly pursuits, their differences only served to strengthen their brotherly bond. Together, they seemed more whole than they ever did apart, their strengths and weaknesses complimenting each other until there were none left.

It had been sorely difficult to go for such a long period of time without seeing Faramir. He had only returned to the City for perhaps five days total in the last two years, and those only to report to his father on the enemy's movements and their own actions to thwart them. There had been only one time that he had spent the night inside the White Tower, and he had had the misfortune of arriving during Faramir's sole excursion down to Dol Amroth to visit with their Uncle, Prince Imrahil, and their cousins. He had been greatly saddened by the missed opportunity to see his brother but had at the same time been thankful that Faramir had traveled to the other city, for he had known how much he had longed to see their Mother's brother after so many years apart. After that time, he had briefly entertained thoughts of the possible existence of a plot to keep he and Faramir separated. However, he had finally dismissed those disturbing thoughts as nonsense. He could see no reason to keep them apart.

"Oh, how you have changed, my brother," he muttered aloud, seeing for the first time how Faramir's face had narrowed and matured, now a young man of seventeen years of age. "The little brother I once knew has disappeared and a stranger has taken his place." The words were sadly true. He had been absent for so long that he would have to rediscover who his brother really was and what else had changed other besides his appearance. "But I swear that this time I will stay until it is accomplished, no matter how long it may take."

One thing he had learned over the past few years – and especially over the past few hours – was how swiftly life can change. _Today's battle could have gone so differently, _he thought, turning away to stare into the fire.

After a little while, he allowed his eyes to close and his mind to clear of all his thoughts, a relaxing technique he had learned after a few months of fighting. Immersed in the night, he listened to the popping and snapping of the fire and felt the cool breeze blow gently against his skin, the faint scent of burning wood lingering in the air. The soft sounds of the local nightlife reached his ears, and he absently identified each individual creature, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

"Boromir?" a voice whispered weakly in the cool, night air.

"The sleeper awakes," Boromir grinned, opening his eyes, and turned to see his brother's wan face looking up at him. "How do you feel?"

Faramir blinked and appeared to think before answering, "Sore…tired."  


"Thirsty, perhaps?" The older brother held up a water skin with a knowing expression.

"Yes, a little."

Shifting over a couple of feet, he gently cradled Faramir's head, lifting it slightly with one hand while holding the water skin up to his mouth with the other, and watched to ensure that he did not take too much at once and begin to cough, a dangerous possibility as the abrupt motion might reopen his wounds and cause him to bleed again. _I do not think he can afford to lose any more blood, not in his condition_. The young man finally shook his head and was soon settled back on Boromir's thick cloak.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked in a somewhat stronger voice, rolling his head to the right to peer up at his older brother, a curious expression drifting over his face.

Boromir shrugged noncommittally, suddenly reluctant to reveal the exact number, knowing it would worry his patient. "A couple of hours," he hedged. 

"Only a couple?"

"Yes," he said simply.

He got the distinct impression that Faramir did not believe him, but the younger man did not press the issue, a fact that both surprised and concerned him. _He must be more weary than I thought,_ he decided, a fact that was confirmed only a moment later when he realized that those intelligent gray eyes had closed and that he appeared to be asleep once more. With a silent sigh, he turned back to the fire, adding a few more sticks to keep it burning and watching as the rush of air from the newly added wood tossed up several glowing cinders into the dark sky. 

His mind drifted away as silence overtook their small campsite once again, but instead of contemplating such things as he had previously, his thought turned to the fierce battle that was only a few hours passed. The images of the fight flashed before his eyes so vividly that he felt as if the attack were happening right then, that it was not just a memory. As before, most of the images were foggy, but the ones that surrounded Faramir's wounding were even clearer and more distinct than ever. Those few seconds replayed themselves over and over in his mind. He heard Faramir's alarmed shout, saw him deliberately move in front to shield him, and then saw the arrow plunge into the front of his body and partially out his back. Again and again the memory repeated itself, and each time Boromir grew more disturbed and upset by the scene. 

__

Why is this happening to me? Why am I torturing myself like this? he cried out mentally, trying in vain to stop the flood of images. _I do not understand! _

Suddenly, a strange thing happened. The image simply…froze…stopping completely just as the bloody arrowhead emerged from the back of Faramir's upper left shoulder. In his mind, Boromir scrutinized the wound's exit point and his own position directly behind his brother.

And then he understood.

If Faramir had not moved in front of him…

If Faramir had not taken the arrow for him… 

He would be dead.

The arrow would have struck him right through the heart. He would have died instantly.

Faramir had not just taken the arrow for him…he had saved his very life.

__

It was the height difference, he realized numbly, his mind sluggish, frozen by the frigid truth. _Faramir and I are practically the same height, but our horses…his horse is but a couple of inches shorter than mine, which is why he was struck in the shoulder and not through the heart as I would have been. _He shuddered violently, horrified by how costly his brother's sacrifice might have been. And close behind that came another, even more disturbing thought. _Did…did Faramir even know about the height difference? The mount he was riding was not Mellon, his usual horse, who is the same height as my own. It all happened so swiftly. Did he have time to think about it before he moved?_

Would he knowingly sacrifice his life for mine?

The answer was painfully clear.

The dark-haired man whipped his head over to where his brother lay asleep, awed and utterly shaken by the young man's selfless act of love and devotion. He knew – had always known – that their bond was unusually strong, but this…this was beyond his comprehension. 

__

How could he – why would he ever choose to do such a thing?! He is my brother, my best friend, my confidante…the only bright spot in my life. Does he not understand how important he is to me?! I…I could never have lived with the knowledge that my brother had died for – in my stead. That would be too cruel a burden to live with. 

He knew that he would sacrifice his own life for Faramir in an instant if the situation required it. That had always been his right, his duty, as the elder brother. He would fight and protect his brother with every muscle of his being, with his very life if need be. That was the way of things. The older brother shields the younger one from harm. It did not go the other way around.

Stunned, he shifted his eyes to the fire, staring sightlessly into the flames for a time, his mind and heart in such turmoil that they seemed ready to fly apart. He sat there completely lost in thought until a quiet voice broke the heavy silence, startling him with its suddenness. 

"Whatever is troubling you, brother?" Faramir asked softly, a hint of concern shadowing his fair voice. "You seem distracted…distant…as if your mind had flown away to some far off land and left only the shell of your body behind to sit at my side."

"I thought you were asleep," he replied, avoiding the question entirely. "You have lost much blood, and you know that the best cure for that is to rest."

The younger man shook his head slightly. "I will rest after you tell me what it is that preys upon your mind and disturbs your thoughts so."

"My thoughts dwell on many things," he snapped, refusing to meet his brother's keen eyes, preferring to study the sparsely covered ground instead. He instantly felt remorse at his harsh words but stubbornly refused to withdraw them; he did not yet wish to discuss what was troubling him. 

"Such as?"

"Faramir…" he sighed. "Can you not leave this alone? We can discuss it later." _If you remember to, that is, _he added mentally. 

"You never know what tomorrow might bring, Boromir." Faramir's calm, wise words echoed his earlier thoughts, sending a chill down the other man's spine though he fought hard to suppress it. "I wish to know what bothers you. Is that so wrong?" he entreated quietly.

Boromir heard the pain in his brother's voice – a pain that he had inflicted upon him – and knew he could not deny his wise counsel. _Perhaps if I tell him some of my thoughts, he will be satisfied and agree to rest. If I refuse outright, he will continue to hound me until either I give in or he passes out from exhaustion. _Neither of the last two options appealed to him, so he reluctantly decided to proceed with the first, hoping that his plan would succeed. 

"I was just thinking about how much you have grown these last few years," he hesitantly began. "When I left, you seemed but a child, and now…now I can hardly reconcile the boy you were with the young man you are. You have changed so much…" his words trailed off, and he made no attempt to continue, uncertain as to where the conversation was leading in the first place.

"Change is inevitable, brother. Sometimes it is for good and sometimes it is for ill, but there is naught we can do to stop it either way." Faramir paused for a moment. "Do you desire that I should forever remain a child, helpless and dependant upon others for my welfare and survival? Would you truly wish that upon me? Or for yourself for that matter?"  


He was quick to disagree. "Any person who saw you fighting today would be deemed insane if he called you 'helpless.' I am certain the orcs that you slayed would agree most readily – if they could still speak…which, of course, they cannot."

"No, I suppose not."

"I had not realized that you had progressed so far in your training," he admitted, taking a small sip from the water skin he was holding and then offering it to the prone man who declined with a small shake of his head. "The way you fought today…It was an amazing sight to behold – you sitting there upon your horse, confidently bringing down every foul creature that dared to challenge you. Faramir, you fought with more skill and tenacity today than I have seen in men twice your age and with a dozen years' experience in the army. Come now," he admonished lightly as Faramir lowered his eyes to the dark blanket and his bandage-covered chest. _Does he receive praise so infrequently that he is embarrassed by it? _a small part of him questioned at the strange behavior. "You need not be embarrassed by the truth. I know of that which I speak, Faramir. You should be proud of your skills for they are a rare gift for someone so young as yourself. Surely you must see that."

The young man lay silently, staring up at the night sky and the brilliant sea of stars that stretched high overhead, visibly contemplating his brother's words with a thoughtful expression upon his pale face. Finally, he rolled his head slightly to the right and met Boromir's gaze, his weary eyes glowing brightly in the fire's light, a sight that, for some odd reason, made the older man's stomach churn nervously though he was uncertain why. "Things change, as I said before. I am not the same person I was when you first left…but then neither are you. The years have changed us all and rightfully so, for if we had remained as we once were, today might have ended quite differently." 

He abruptly reached out and grasped his brother's forearm, his grip surprising strong for one so gravely injured. His eyes bored into Boromir's as he finished, the gray depths filled with conviction, an intense pain lying just below the surface. "And I would have you know that I would rather lie here wounded by your side, brother, than have stayed back in the City, safe and unharmed, but lacking your company. I want – " his words were cut off as his eyes slammed shut, his teeth gritting together, body stiffening with pain. The darkness seemed to close in about the fire as Faramir struggled to regain control of his mutinous body and master the pain that had stolen his breath. 

Boromir sat helplessly by his side, unable to relieve his brother's suffering even the slightest bit, cursing the orcs for the damage they had wrought on the young man. He covered Faramir's tightly clenched fist with one hand and gently smoothed back a lock of dark hair from his damp forehead with the other, frowning slightly at the heat that met his fingers. 

In the end, the wounded young man was unable to muster the strength to open his eyes and finished his sentence in a breathless whisper. "I need you…to understand that, brother. I…need you to…believe it. Please," he pleaded weakly, his voice so faint that Boromir was forced to lean in to hear him clearly.

"I believe you, Faramir," he reassured him softly, evenly, while fighting to hide the concern that threatened to betray his calm words and destroy their soothing effect. "Now, try to get some rest. You have fought against sleep for long enough." Boromir stayed next to him and held his hand, watching by the light of the flickering fire as sleep slowly crept up upon his little brother. He sighed heavily as the wounded body sank fully against the ground a while later, completely asleep, and carefully added a second blanket overtop him, tucking him in securely to ensure that the cool air did not cause him to wake later in the night and thus disturb his much needed sleep. Then, wrapped up in a blanket of his own, he made his weary body as comfortable as possible and settled in for a long night of watch at Faramir's side, hoping that nothing would happen…but knowing that the matter was no longer in his hands. 

TBC…


	4. Complications

Title: Fate Spares Him For Some Other End

Author: Adalanta

Email: adalanta14@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13 for a few gruesome images

Characters: Boromir, Faramir

Categories: Angst, Drama

Summary: Caught alone in the wilderness, the sons of Denethor are suddenly attacked by a band of orcs, leaving one brother gravely wounded and the other to ensure his survival.

Disclaimer: Boromir and Faramir are Tolkien's. The situation is mine.

Author's Note: I'm back! Sorry for the delay, but believe me – a broken elbow was not in my plans when I started this story, nor was learning how to write with my left hand (a difficult, but not impossible task). 

This is dedicated with love to all who have reviewed thus far, even after my considerable absence. Your encouragement was greatly appreciated! I think your reviews even helped me to heal faster! Thank you all! A special thanks goes out to Evendim for helping me with a dialogue problem I ran into. And also to my sister who kept asking me when I was going to "get back to work." Well, sis, here it is.

**Fate Spares Him For Some Other End**

Chapter Four – Complications 

"Boromir!"

The sudden, panicked cry shattered the uneasy stillness of the night, startling the solitary figure huddled next to the small, flickering fire. Boromir jerked his head to his left where his brother lay sleeping and saw the wounded man's pale face contort into a mask of pure terror. Before he could stretch his arm out and awaken him, however, Faramir cried out again, louder this time, "No! Boromir! BOROMIR!"

"Shhh, it is all right, Faramir," the elder brother soothed, placing one gloved hand carefully on the other's chest and gently smoothing the dark hair back from his forehead with the other, a comforting gesture as well as a practical one as it kept the restless head still. He frowned slightly upon seeing how damp the young man's hair had become in the short time that had passed since he had last checked him. Despite the disturbing find, he continued to utter a stream of reassurances, his deep voice calm and even. "It was just a dream. Wake up, little brother. Do not let your dreams haunt you. I am here. Shhh, shhh, it is all right. Wake up, Faramir. Wake up."

But Faramir seemed unable to hear his calming words and let out another horrible cry as he attempted to sit up, heedless of his wounded shoulder, his upper body surging up so abruptly that he nearly knocked Boromir off balance. The other man held his position, though, and firmly grasping the upper arms of the struggling man, he managed to press him back onto the abandoned blanket. "Faramir!" he called sharply, fear beginning to overshadow his previous shock. "Open your eyes! Wake up!"

Finally, the young man's eyes flew open, the gray depths wide and unfocused. He stared up at his brother blankly as Boromir spoke to him, but it was several long, anxious moments before he was able to shake off the residual effects of the nightmare that had gripped him and managed to focus on the older man. "Boromir?" he whispered, gazing up at him in disbelief.

"Yes, it is I," he replied softly, squeezing his right shoulder.

"But…but you were…I saw – " Faramir gasped, his voice stammering as he slowly lifted his shaking right hand up to Boromir's face, as if to be certain that what he was seeing was indeed real. "The arrow…you were wounded and I – I – "

Boromir flinched inwardly as the hot hand touched his face, his sharp mind instantly perceiving the reason for its unnatural warmth. _Fever, it whispered warningly, but he pushed the thought aside to deal with the present; he had to calm his brother before he could examine him further. He placed his own hand over his brother's and held it tightly to his cheek. "It was just a dream, Faramir. That is all. Nothing but a dream."_

"But it felt so real," he shuddered, eyes still wide with fear. "The arrow pierced you and you were bleeding but there was so much blood and I could not – " As Faramir's words tumbled over one another, he grew agitated and attempted to rise a second time, though he quickly abandoned the idea as the raw, gaping hole in his shoulder flared to life. With a sharp cry of pain, he slumped back and closed his eyes, his dark eyelashes a vast contrast against his blanched skin. 

As Faramir's left hand grasped at the blanket that covered him and tried to ride out the sudden wave of pain, Boromir clutched his little brother's hand in his own larger one. A small part of him could not help but feel relief – for the pain, terrible as it was, had served to shock the young man into stillness and silence…and hopefully, awareness. The pain slowly diminished, and when the young man was finally able to open his eyes and meet his brother's, there was naught in them but a lingering pain. The fear, terror, and disorientation had all fled, leaving behind only a pair of weary gray eyes. 

"It was a dream, was it not?" The soft words were spoken more as a statement than a question.

"Yes."

"And you…" Faramir hesitated slightly, nervously picking at the blanket with his left hand. "You are well?" 

He nodded, smiling slightly. "I am fine, brother. You, however, were not so fortunate."

"So it seems," Faramir replied mildly, looking off to his right to gaze at the yellow and orange flames of the fire, the dancing flames casting shadows over his fair features. 

_Ah, brother, you have become more adept at the use of non-answers in my absence, _Boromir thought wryly and then repeated his thoughts aloud with a smirk. 

"I have learned much while you were away," came the simple reply.

"Yes, so it seems," Boromir repeated, attempting to, and succeeding in bringing forth a small smile upon the other's face. "Now," he said briskly, "Let us get some water into you, eh?" As he searched for the closest water skin, he nonchalantly pulled off the thick gloves that had warmed his hands as the night had grown cooler. _I should not have been wearing them at all, _he silently berated himself as he eased a hand under Faramir's neck and helped him to drink. As soon as his hand touched his brother's bare skin, he knew that what he had feared most had come to pass. 

Faramir had a fever. 

_As if shock and blood loss were not enough to battle, now he has to suffer through a fever as well. If only I had not worn the gloves…If only I had noticed this sooner…_His eyes closed as a heavy sigh escaped him.

"Boromir? What is the matter?"

The soft voice drew him from his self-scathing thoughts, and it was then that he realized that Faramir had pushed the water skin away and was peering up at him, a concerned look upon his pale face. For a few brief moments, his resolve wavered, and uncertainty flooded him. Should he tell Faramir the truth and risk the chance of worrying him further? Or should he be completely honest, as he himself would liked to be treated, if he were in his brother's place? In the end, he could not bring himself to look into those familiar gray eyes and lie, even if it was to comfort him. "You have a fever, Faramir," he sighed.

Faramir looked up at him, his gaze unwavering. "Yes, I am aware of that. Is that what is bothering you so?"

"What? You…you knew that…" Boromir stammered, momentarily too stunned to complete an entire sentence. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again. "You knew you had a fever and you said nothing? Did you plan on informing me of this any time soon?" his voice rose steadily as he spoke.

"I saw no reason to worry you. You fuss, Boromir," the young man interrupted, seeing Boromir's mouth open in protest and deciding it best to keep speaking without letting his brother make a sound. "You have always fussed over me, dear brother, especially whenever I was sick with fever as a child. But I am not a child, and I will not have you treating me as such!"

Those frustrated words struck a chord deep within the soldier's heart, words that unknowingly echoed the exact same ones that he had spoke to his first field commander. The man had purposefully sheltered him from all of the mundane tasks and assignments that encompassed Army life, naively thinking he was doing the young Steward's Heir a favor by sparing him from tasks that he felt were 'below his station in life.' When he had figured out what was happening and why, he had immediately confronted the officer about it and saw that it was changed. He had had no wish to be coddled, either. 

On the heels of that memory, though, came another darker one. He shivered, remembering that it was only three days later that he had been wounded in battle for the first time, a grievous sword wound that had nearly killed him…at the tender age of seventeen…the same age that Faramir was now. 

He cleared his throat, barely suppressing a second shiver at the painful memories that had surfaced and at the uneasiness stirring within. "I know that you are not a child, but you will always be my little brother, and as such, it is my right – no, my privilege – to worry over your health and welfare. A fever is not something to be trifled with," he said sternly, "even if it seems unimportant at the time. Do you understand?"

Faramir stubbornly refused to admit that he might have been mistaken. "Boromir, I may not be as experienced a soldier as you, but even I know that when a man is wounded and loses blood, he is bound to catch fever." He paused for a moment to catch his breath, his weary body spent from the short but spirited conversation. "Surely you know this as well as I."  

"Of course I know." Now he was the one to look away, preferring to look at the ground rather than at his brother's understanding face. "It is just that I…I had hoped that you…" his voice trailed off into the night.

"…that I would not be afflicted?" 

Boromir's gaze snapped up to Faramir as his brother finished the sentence that he himself had not the heart to speak. Faramir's steady, penetrating eyes stared directly into his own, as if peering into his very soul. The expression in their smokey depths…_I have seen that look before_, _I am sure of it, _Boromir thought in the brief pause that his brother took to study him. _But who was it?_ He sat still and watched as understanding finally dawned on the young man's face. 

"You cannot protect me from everything, Boromir," he said softly, his voice filled with sadness, sounding older and wiser than his years. "Remember that. It is not a fair burden for you to place upon yourself." 

Silence settled over the camp once again, the snapping and popping of the fire strangely loud in the absence of words as each man sat quietly engulfed in his own thoughts. Boromir turned his gaze to the fire, absently staring into the swaying flames as he considered Faramir's words. _He is right, he grudgingly admitted to himself after a time. _I cannot protect him all the time…but that does not mean that I cannot try. And I will not give up any time soon. He is still so young, and, whether he believes it or not, he does need my help. He is just too stubborn to realize it. We are too much alike, he and I._ A smile flashed across his face as that last thought floated through his mind._

_And yet…How can one so young sound so wise?_ he caught himself wondering, recalling all that had been said. _I know that I was gone for a long while, but it seems as if he has aged ten years instead of two. What has his life been like these last few years? _Shifting his attention back to the form beside him, he began to speak, but found that he had waited too long, for the younger man had fallen asleep, his mouth slightly open in slumber, an endearing habit he had maintained from the craddle.

The north wind blew suddenly, sending a gust of frigid air through the camp that seemed to slash through Boromir as surely as a knife, sinking hundreds of icy blades into his flesh. He ignored the dark hair that was blown into his eyes as he quickly pulled the blankets up to his brother's chin, carefully tucking the loose ends under the still body to keep the wind from ripping them off and attacking the wounded man beneath. 

Finally satisfied, he leaned back, shivering from the cold, and wrapped his spare cloak tighter around his own body in a vain attempt to keep warm. "I should have brought more blankets," he muttered under his breath, tucking his bare hands under his arms and eyeing the thick leather gloves longingly, but refusing to put them on."Who would have thought it would be this cold at this time of year?" He had had the foresight to bring along an extra blanket in addition to his own, but had given both of them to Faramir earlier, as well as the saddle blanket he had taken from his horse, which left him with nothing but his clothes and his cloak…and his gloves. He had tried to give them to Faramir too, but he had blatantly refused them, saying that his hands were warm enough beneath the two blankets that covered him. But after earlier…Boromir could not bring himself to wear them, no matter how cold the night would become. He would be fine, a little chilled perhaps, but he had endured worse weather than this during the previous winter in Ithilien. 

Faramir, though…being wounded and trapped in the wilderness was never a good place to find oneself, even for an experienced Ranger with plenty of supplies. But they had lost half of their things when Faramir's mount had been killed, the poor animal having taken an arrow directly to the throat only moments after Boromir had grabbed Faramir. There had been no time to retrieve anything from the dying horse during the attack. In truth, it had been the furthest thing from his mind.

_Cold weather. Little supplies. And now this fever…_He shook his head as he listed off their problems. Worried did not even begin to describe his current feelings. While Faramir spoke the truth about a fever being normal in his case, the Steward's Heir could not help but feel that something was amiss, though he could not put that feeling into words or adequately explain the reasoning behind it. It was simply that – a feeling. Nothing more. 

Or so he kept reminding himself.

_I hate having to stay here with Faramir exposed to this kind of weather,_ he thought, shivering as another gust of frigid wind blew through the camp, causing the small fire to flicker ominously and threaten to go out._ But it is too dangerous to move him. His wounds have barely stopped bleeding, and he is so weak from blood lose. If I moved him now in his condition, I could kill him. Besides, the horse is nearly exhausted from the battle and from carrying the both of us away to safety. And he would not be able to see in this wretched darkness. If he tripped, and Faramir fell…_He shifted his position on the cold, hard ground, pressing his long legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and laying his chin upon his knees. _No, we have no other choice but to remain here for the night and to deal with whatever it might bring. _

TBC… __

(Sooner than last time, I promise.)


End file.
